Gemotions

The doorbell. Sarah flinched. She knew, even before she peered through the peephole. It was Mrs. Peterson, a casserole dish clutched in her hands, a polite smile glued to her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes. The dog was loose. Again.

"Oh, hello," she stammered, twisting her fingers together. She felt a heat rising in her cheeks. The casserole dish was a peace offering.

Inside, she could hear Buster enthusiastically chewing on her prize-winning pumpkin, a pumpkin she’d spent weeks nurturing. She focused on the cracks in the paint on her own front door, the chipped porch steps. Everything suddenly felt magnified, a testament to her shortcomings.